


Promise

by Felixbug



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Blood, Implied/Referenced Abortion, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Torture, Implied/Referenced Tranquility, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Revenge, Scars, Solitary Confinement, Victim Blaming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-26
Updated: 2015-06-26
Packaged: 2018-04-06 08:21:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4214802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Felixbug/pseuds/Felixbug
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>“I fell in love with you that day,” Justice growled, tracing his thumb over Hawke’s lower lip. “It was not like Kristoff’s love for Aura, and I did not recognise it – we do not love like them. We love with trust, with protection, with </i>blood.<i>”</i></p><p>Hawke will go to any lengths to make sure Anders is safe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Promise

**Author's Note:**

> This is definitely part of Breaking the Silence continuity (though definitely works on its own), and will be slotted into the series along with Proud (which happens a few weeks before this) once I get to this point in the timeline :) 
> 
> Warning tags are definitely there for a reason, this one deals explicitly with violent revenge, and Anders' memories of abuse he and others suffered in the Circle, and some distorted thinking caused by living in that environment.

_“Once you’re Tranquil, you’ll do anything I ask.”_

_Anders’ mind stutters as a blank wave of crushing fear scatters his thoughts. He should be angry – Justice’s own fury is carrying him forwards – but Anders’ rage is stifled as thick, choking dread claws at his throat. Yvette is maybe four months along when she comes to him – she can’t hide it anymore and she’s so sick, so scared she can’t even say what’s happened but he knows. They all know. It’s unspoken and unthinkable and yet they all_ know _the Templars whose eyes you don’t meet and whose attention you do not –_ do not _– draw._

_It’s worse for Adala, who’d never trust a shem healer – especially not the boy who’s rarely punished for his constant escape attempts. Anders knows what she thinks of him, what the elves all think of him – he can get away with things that they cannot and Anders is too young and arrogant to understand their hatred. When the herbs she’s taken drop her like a stone in the dining hall, blood soaking her robes and pooling around her as the apprentices gasp and stare, she is already doomed. They call it a suicide attempt – although Anders knows it wasn’t, everyone knows it wasn’t, and no one says a word – they call her unstable. They press her for information and she breaks, she gives a name._

_And when Anders sees her again she’s in the library, the raw edges of the brand healing on her skin, and she doesn’t hate him anymore. He wishes that she could._

_“Get your hands off her!”_

_It’s Hawke’s voice – should have been Anders’ voice – the guilt is Anders’ and it is Justice’s and it sickens them. Anders is too far gone in the horrors of his own mind – chains on his wrists, and a collar around his neck. The chains are enchanted somehow – thick, heavy magic clings to them and keeps him weak, keeps him helpless, and Irving is talking and the words he’s saying don’t make sense – they can’t make sense. There’s scalding agony across his back and blood soaking into his robe and that should be enough – it_ has to be _enough – and everything else Irving says is just to scare him._

_“It was this or Tranquility,” Irving says – and Anders’ blood runs cold, that’s illegal – they can’t – they wouldn’t. “You should be grateful.”_

_Anders falls into the dark, and Justice steps forward, eyes blazing._

_“You fiends will never touch a mage again!”_

***

It had taken Anders a long time to be ready. Justice felt the hesitation in his mind as he settled cross legged on the bed beside Hawke, fingers twisting in the loose strands of his hair. He desperately wanted to come forward – to be close to Anders the only way he could be, as a flickering glow in his skin – or further, to have this conversation for him. But Anders wanted to do this alone – and Justice settled instead in the back of his mind, coiled tightly around his thoughts.

“I don’t know why they took it more seriously that time,” Anders said. “I’d escaped several times, and attempted it – Maker, hundreds, probably. Sometimes when the Templars caught me they’d – I don’t know, get a little rough. Scrapes and bruises, nothing serious.”

Justice noticed Hawke’s hand tighten into a fist where it lay against the sheets, and felt rage of his own deep in Anders’ mind. Every blow, every threat – they had all left their mark on Anders’ skin and on his mind. They were unforgivable.

“The last time – I think it’s because I almost made it? I’d got myself coin, I’d cut my hair and grown a beard – I was hard to recognise and I’d been gone for months. Spent some time in Denerim earning the gold for passage to Kirkwall and I got sloppy.” The guilt and anguish threatened to overwhelm them both for a moment – things could have been so different. “I didn’t have a story prepared, I didn’t blend with the other people looking to travel – everything about me must have screamed runaway, and one of the Captains I’d approached called the Templars. They knew where I was headed – shit, maybe that’s why – one mage breaking loose is an escape, but trying to free another that’s – that’s a rebellion.” He laughed humourlessly. “I know it’s hard to believe now, but I wasn’t a revolutionary. I just wanted – I wanted…”

“I know,” Hawke said, and reached out for Anders’ hand.

“I hated myself for being caught. For being scared – the whole journey back I was just – just waiting for things to get worse. They’d been chasing me for so long and they were so angry. There were – threats.” Justice tried to take some of the burden of sickening terror that lurked in Anders’ throat. “They knew I’d been working in the brothel – made assumptions – made jokes about…”

“If they touched you…” Hawke growled.

“They didn’t.” Anders ran a shaking hand through his hair. “I feel – ungrateful, stupid, that I even care. They just wanted to get me shaken up and here I am, years later and – safe – and it still works. I was lucky. I was one of the lucky ones.”

“You don’t have to be _grateful_ that it wasn’t worse.” Justice wasn’t sure he’d ever loved Hawke more than in that moment – his jaw was set hard, and his grip on Anders’ hand was tight – almost bruising.

“I’d say that to any of my patients.” He smiled sadly. “Never been all that good at saying it to myself. I’m working on it – fuck, the damage I’ve done to Justice trying not to admit what a mess I am… I need to fix this. Starting with this. With you. You’ve got a right to know.”

“If you don’t want to tell me, don’t – you don’t owe it to me, love.” Hawke softened his expression.

“I do. I do.” Anders’ thoughts brushed hopefully against Justice, and Justice eased closer in response, radiating warmth and love. “The scars on my back – well, I suppose that’s self-explanatory. I didn’t know if Irving even knew I was back, I couldn’t believe he’d have allowed it – he’d always… I don’t know, there were punishments, but nothing like this. But I survived it – I barely remember most of it – there was so much blood. But I remember thinking that it would be finished soon – and I’d go back to my room, and I’d heal, and in a few days I wouldn’t remember how much it hurt. I’d remember a few months of freedom, and I’d spend some time with my friends and then start planning for the next attempt.” He laughed bitterly. “Then they took me to Irving’s office and I found out that – that wasn’t how it was going to go.”

***

_Even the memory of Alrik’s voice sends a cold shiver down Justice’s spine, Anders’ discomfort echoing through him. Justice channels that fear and disgust into something stronger – something bloodier and more destructive as Alrik’s limp body hits the cave wall and slides to the ground. He’s still alive, armour dented, face bloodied from the gaping wound in his head, and his men are dead or dying behind them. Justice steps forward, burning with righteous fury as he casts Anders’ staff aside with a snarl._

_He tears into Alrik with his bare hands, relishing the choked gurgle from his throat as impossibly strong fingers claw into his skin. He dies too fast, drowning in blood as his ice-blue eyes widen, his skin drains of colour, and his blood gushes over Justice’s chest in a torrent. Justice twists his head from his shoulders with a triumphant bellow and turns to his companions, gore-drenched and victorious, holding the monster’s head in his hand._

_“They will die!” He roars. “I will have every last Templar for these abuses.”_

_It is unbearable – the pain and fear and self-loathing clouding Anders’ every thought. There is a girl on the ground and when he looks directly at her she looks like Anders – it hurts and he doesn’t quite know why but there’s something that resonates there, something that aches. He hates her. He hates her and himself, and the pain boils inside him more than he can bear._

_It isn’t enough to stop it – but Hawke’s voice cuts through it for a moment. Intense and almost tangible, a deep growl that sinks into his soul and tells him he is not alone. The world will let mages suffer and they will turn their backs – but this man, this mortal, will not. He looks into their eyes and he makes them a promise they will never forget._

_“We’ll kill them all. I promise.”_

***

Justice steadied Anders’ hand as he wrote the list. _Ser Kinsley, Ser Fickett, Ser Achard…_ nine in all, plus Irving and Greagoir. He almost didn’t hand it over – Hawke’s face was like thunder, and Anders’ mind was full of images of Hawke setting sail for Ferelden with his sword and the list and no plan. Justice reassured him – he would not let Hawke throw his life away on this, he would keep both of his mortals safe. Anders handed it over.

“This is all of them?” Hawke studied the names. “The ones who caught you – the ones who…” he couldn’t say it, couldn’t quite acknowledge the torture out loud. Justice could see the raw horror and pain he hid, the way he had seen it that first night when Anders’ scars were uncovered. “Who were responsible.”

“Everyone I know of.” Anders’ hands twisted nervously. “I know you wanted to know who – brought me food, the ones who let them keep me there – but honestly I don’t know.”

Justice nudged at his mind, and Anders let him come forward. It was a little harder than usual – Anders’ pain and trepidation made his thoughts erratic, and he was too anxious to let go of control easily.

“Every Templar is responsible,” Justice snarled as his eyes blazed. “In Ferelden, in Kirkwall, on every inch of this wretched world, this is what mages suffer.”

“I know, love.”

Justice stood, and cupped Hawke’s face with his hands. He could feel Anders’ panic, and the shake in his own hands.

“I am not Vengeance,” he said. “I am Justice. I do not – I cannot hunt these Templars.”

“What they did…” Hawke gaped at him. “It would be _just._ ”

“It would. But I would not kill them for justice. I would not kill them for the hundreds of other mages who suffered at their hands. I would kill them for Anders – I would kill them for pleasure and my only regret would be that I could not kill them again.”

“Are you telling me to let this go?”

“No.” Justice stared down into his eyes. “Anders is afraid – he will not admit aloud that he needs this – but I can feel his mind tremble at the thought that they still live. Do not risk yourself – but if the chance arises, do not hesitate. I have seen Anders’ memories –I have – I have _felt_ with him. I have walked through the darkness in his mind – the cold dark space they locked him in that he will carry with him until he dies. You made me a promise once, do you remember it?”

“I do.”

“I fell in love with you that day,” Justice growled, tracing his thumb over Hawke’s lower lip. “It was not like Kristoff’s love for Aura, and I did not recognise it – we do not love like them. We love with trust, with protection, with _blood._ ”

***

_“Every one of them will feel Justice’s burn!”_

_Anders is in the dark, and Justice is with him. Hawke’s voice is the only thing that tethers them to reality, but even that is weak. They kneel in their cell, and those first few days they will not scream or beg or claw at the hands that push food and water through the bars. Irving’s words remind them that it could have been worse – it should have been worse._

_Justice tries to remember that he was not there, but the memories are so strong. He shivers in the dark as Anders blames himself, hates himself, thinks of Karl suffering in Kirkwall and berates himself for every mistake that led him here. He is afraid to beg to be released – afraid that they will become sick of his screaming and make him Tranquil instead – and he hates himself for his fear, for being a victim, for being weak._

_Eventually they break – they howl and claw at the walls, grip the bars on the door, scream and threaten and beg and plead. They are not made Tranquil – although at this point, Anders would not have fought it – they are not even acknowledged._

_“Get away from me, demon!”_

_Justice doesn’t understand – he is no demon, he is a mage, he is a scared, half-starved mage locked in the dark – he is powerless and his powerlessness disgusts him. He hates the way he begs, the way he cowers – and now the Templars would accuse him of more? Of being the monster they believe all mages will eventually become._

_“I am no demon! Are you one of them, that you would call me such?”_

_She screams. She does not fight – she scrabbles away from him. Every one of them cowering in cages, letting the Templars take and take and never rising up. They run because they dare not fight, they suffer because they can imagine nothing else, and when the wounds on their back fester and the chains at their wrists and throat chafe their skin raw they are a victim without a voice, without name. Justice snarls, and magic gathers in his hand. He will not be their victim again._

_“Anders!” Hawke’s voice stills him. “That girl is a mage. We rescued her from being made Tranquil.”_

_“She is theirs. I can feel their hold on her.”_

_There’s a tugging in his mind, he can feel Anders pulling him back, dragging both of them out of the dark but it’s too little too late. His chest is tight with panic and he wants to scream – wants to sink to his knees and scream and scream until it’s over._

_“She’s the reason you’re fighting, Anders. Don’t turn on her now.”_

_He remembers Hawke’s promise, and it is almost enough to hold him back. He hesitates, his hold on Anders’ body loosens, but he can’t quite stop as he raises his hand, lightning coiling around his fist._

***

“Nothing happens unless you want it to.” Hawke’s voice was soft, but Justice could see the intensity in his gaze as he sat Anders down. They were in the clinic, dust dancing in the faint beams of sunlight filtering down from above, and Anders’ list was clenched in Hawke’s fist. “This is still your choice.”

“I appreciate the offer, love.” Anders pulled back his hair, winding the leather cord around his ponytail. As soon as it was tied he started fussing again, curling loose strands around his fingers, not able to quite hold still. “I – honestly, I thought they’d probably all died during the Blight. Things went – ah, _wrong,_ at the Circle.”

“So I’ve heard.” Hawke sighed. “I made a few subtle enquiries. At least three of them are definitely dead – Irving and Greagoir are still in Ferelden. I’ve not found anything on the other five – but Achard is in Kirkwall.”

“Don’t take any risks.” Anders met Hawke’s eye – Justice could feel the conflict in him, the fundamental goodness in his nature that made vengeance feel wrong, even when it was justified. But he needed to move on – needed to know they’d never drag him back. “I mean it,” he said. “No risks – not even small ones. If this – if they hurt you because of me.” The image of Karl’s face flitted across their vision, the brand raised and red on his brow.

“Hey, we’ve murdered a Templar before,” Hawke said with a grin. “A few – complications aside, that worked out all right.”

“Alrik was a troublemaker.” Anders began to pace, the flutterings of panic rising in his chest. He wanted this, he needed it – but the thought of Hawke going up against this Templar alone… It was terrifying. “He – his plan had been rejected by everyone in authority – they weren’t willing to stop him, but sooner or later he’d have gone too far and they’d have had to step in. They knew it – it just takes a lot for the Chantry to ever act against a Templar.” He shook his head. “Unless we’re lucky and Ser Achard is involved in something equally potentially embarrassing, they will _care_ if he disappears.”

“Then we make sure he disappears thoroughly,” Hawke said. “Or I do. I don’t want you or Justice anywhere near this.”

Anders was relieved, even as he worried – he never wanted to see Achard alive again.

He accepted – cautiously, barely daring to believe Hawke would do this for him, not quite believing he deserved it. But he was grateful – more than he could manage to say. He threw himself at Hawke in a crush of lips and a tangle of limbs, and they staggered together into the back room and tumbled into Anders’ narrow, rickety bed. Justice watched through Anders’ eyes as long as he could bear, but as Hawke finally thrust into them with a grunt Justice opened flickering blue eyes and kissed him fiercely. They moved together, three beings in two bodies, grunts and gasps and moans as the bed slammed against the wall and dust trickled from the ceiling.

“You’re safe,” Hawke gasped afterwards, as Anders clung to his chest. “You’re safe with me. Always.”

Justice didn’t need to speak aloud – he hummed and glowed through Anders’ veins, beating in his heart and pressed tight against his thoughts. Anders was tangled between them, warm and protected and _safe._ No Templar would have him.

***

_“Please messere…”_

_It wouldn’t be enough – it almost isn’t – but Hawke is at their side and Hawke can be trusted. He is not rejecting them, he has stood beside them and proven his dedication to their cause. Justice hears his promise again, it repeats rhythmically like a heartbeat and he hesitates. Anders hears the girl’s voice – he hears her not as a scared mage in a cell but as a healer. He is the man who helped Yvette, not the man who failed Adala. He is the Darktown healer and the liberator of mages – he is not this. He is determined, strong, and Justice is no longer certain what he’s doing or why as Anders pushes forward within their mind and forces him back. They fall to their knees – relief and panic and horror mingling as they both realise what they almost did._

_“Maker, no…” Anders gasps. “I almost… if you weren’t here… I need to get out of here.”_

_He runs. He runs from Hawke and from Ella, but he cannot outrun Justice. He is horrified – Alrik’s head abandoned somewhere on the cave floor, blood dripping from his clothes. Justice’s triumph is Anders’ nightmare – he wakes in blood and ruin and cannot understand the chaos that Justice has whipped up around him. Justice thinks it would have been better to stay shackled to a corpse and fall apart with it, shedding memory and thought as his ties to this world decayed around him. Anything but this – he has broken Anders, and Anders has broken him. They are not fit to serve mages, they are not fit for anything. They run together. They might have run forever._

_Then Hawke is in the Clinic, and Anders stops. He stops as he has stopped for no one since Karl. Justice knows that they should keep away from him – that they are desperate and scared and_ dangerous _– but he hears Hawke’s voice, and understands. He understands why Anders didn’t run when he knew he should, when he knew he couldn’t be truly happy if he didn’t. Hawke anchors them both to the ground, and they are his._

***

Anders couldn’t sleep – couldn’t even hold still. He’d spent the evening pacing the estate, thinking over Hawke’s plan. He’d found where Achard drank, bribed one of the gangs of half-feral children that roamed Darktown to delay his friends, and played the amicable drunk adventurer until Achard was hanging on his every word. A nest of blood mages that most Templars were too _cowardly_ to tackle, that had been the story – and Achard had puffed up like a pigeon when Hawke said he looked the type who could handle it.

It was a good trap – the promise of coin discouraged him from sharing his plans, and the drink fogged his mind enough that he asked few questions. Now, Hawke was meeting him – leading him into the sewers, relying on the element of surprise to take down a man no less strong and skilled. Justice tried to soothe Anders’ anxieties but they overwhelmed him – he couldn’t be here, couldn’t be idle. He scrawled a note for Hawke and headed to the clinic, to his writing desk where the almost finished draft of his manifesto lay, and began working on it furiously. The scratch of his pen eased the panic a little, short, rhythmic scuffs of nib on parchment as their words flowed. Justice eased forward to steady his hand, and Anders’ mind brushed against him gratefully.

“Garrett will be safe,” Justice said as he eased forward, his veins glimmering blue beneath Anders’ skin. “He will be victorious.”

“Your faith in me is very touching.”

They turned together, the chair tipping to the ground with a crash as ink splattered the parchment. Hawke stood in the doorway – his armour was bloodied, his hair was dripping gore, and he was _grinning._ He stalked forward and swept Anders into his arms, running gauntleted hands through his hair as Anders ran his hands over his armour – checking for damage, for loose sections, for the wounds Hawke reassured him over and over he did not have.

“He’s dead, love,” he said. “It’s over. He’s dead.”

“You got my note.” It wasn’t what Anders wanted to say – or Justice, hovering on his tongue – but he was so relieved, so shaken, his words were all mixed up.

“Note?” Hawke paused. “No, love – I haven’t been home. I was going to use the tunnel – thought I’d better not cause a scene in Hightown. I saw the door open.” He grinned. “Probably for the best, Orana probably wouldn’t want me dropping this on the carpet.”

“This?”

Hawke pulled away, and they saw the bag he carried. Rough sackcloth – dark with thick, half-clotted blood dripping from it. The bag was held closed in his fist.

“For Justice,” Hawke said. “If you – he – both want to see.” He shrugged with a lopsided grin. “I promised, remember? Or, well, joked to be more accurate. Almost a year ago now – I’m not the best with romance, I tend to run a little late and I’m told my gift giving skills are deeply, troublingly inappropriate.”

Justice surged forward, understanding as Anders did what was being offered. Anders needed to see this – to know without doubt that it was done – but Justice _wanted_ to. He didn’t know if it was quite _just_ , but he could indulge himself in these small desires. Hawke held out the bag and he took it, reached in, and his fingers met a tangle of bloodied hair.

“He talked when he was drunk,” Hawke snarled. “I wanted to be sure it was him – I asked him about what they did with runaways. He bragged – about listening to him scream in the dark and _laughing_.” His hands were shaking, the veneer of his smile gone. “He mentioned Anders by _name._ He was proud. I’m sorry – Anders shouldn’t hear this I…”

“Anders knows what Templars are,” Justice said. He withdrew Achard’s head from the bag – his eyes were fixed in a wide, terrified stare, and there was a deep slash across his face. “What matters is that he will not brag again.”

“I want to help.” Hawke’s hands were balled into tight fists. “Not just with the manifesto. Not just with money and a safe place to live, not picking off Templars one by one. I want to be involved – with the underground. With your cause.”

Justice dropped the head to the ground and pulled Hawke close again. He smelled of blood and the sweet, soft hum of lyrium beneath – the singing poison in the Templar’s blood.

“We’ll kill them all,” Justice growled.

He kissed him hard – more teeth than tongue, lips crushed until they tasted blood, hands tangled in hair and breath coming quick and rough. Justice let Hawke push him back against the wall, an armoured thigh pressed between his legs. Anders rose up inside him to join them, and none of the three could have said who started tugging at buckles and laces first as hands delved into clothes and loosened armour.

“You promise?” Hawke gasped.

Justice let Anders feel the words before he spoke them, his mind a thick, protective haze around Anders’ fears, around his heart – he was here for him, every bit as much as Hawke.

“I promise.”


End file.
